


The hour of the wolf

by nastystoryteller (naivesilver)



Category: La Lupa (Giovanni Verga)
Genre: Crying After Sex, F/M, First Time, Older Woman/Younger Man, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-24 17:08:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21621493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naivesilver/pseuds/nastystoryteller
Summary: Their first time, down in the fields.
Relationships: Gnà Pina/Nanni
Kudos: 4
Collections: Corsets & Lemons 2019 round - 1800 literature





	The hour of the wolf

She doesn’t think of her daughter.

Neither does Nanni, she supposes. He loves Maricchia, or so he said when he married her, but she’s not here now, she can’t stop what was bound to happen so long ago. Besides, who would want the little wolf cub when _la Lupa_ is on the prowl?

Maricchia holds no power here, then. Nanni thinks _he_ does, though: he tries to gain the upper hand, to force her down onto the sun-dried grass and take her and be done with it. Pina would let him, if there were no other way, but she knows he’s as weak as he’s handsome: all it takes is a firm push of her fingers on his shoulders and he falls down, his breath coming out in heavy pants as he regards her from below, her strong arms and her firm breasts and her dark, dark eyes.

They say her eyes can drive a man away from God. A town of lustful men, some of which had a hundred women (and not all willing), and they call _her_ the witch, the temptress, the hunter.

Very well, then: if they want her to hunt, then by the Lord she will devour her prey.

She hitches her skirts up as she kneels down, lets Nanni’s fingers card in her hair and undo her braids, tear her bodice open and paw clumsily at her teats. She has no care for that, when she can put a hand down his trousers, find his manhood – already so stiff, so eager; he’s wanted this for a long time, then, he’s all but trembling in anticipation – and take it out, stroke it with light fingers and send shivers down his spine.

Were she to listen to the side of herself that fell head over heels for Nanni, Pina would dawdle and savour the moment: but she’s waited for too long, and night is coming upon them. Besides, she knows there’ll be other times, that he won’t be able to refuse her anymore now, no matter how much he curses and prays, so she unceremoniously climbs on top of him and takes his cock inside her.

She’s dripping wet, and the moment his tip first touches her folds – the moment he easily slides in, fills her, _finally, finally_ – is a triumph, the coronation of a thousand sleepless nights. It’s not what she pictured many times, pleasuring herself on her cot as she listened to Nanni and Maricchia rut like animals just behind the wall; it’s infinitely, impossibly better, and her hips rock against his in a frantic race, a manic smile plastered on her face.

He’s murmuring something, and in the silence of the fields his repetitive litany reaches her ears bright and clear: “Holy Mary, Holy Mother, please, please, Mother Mary, please…”

It’s laughable, one way or another: either he’s delirious, seeing the Virgin in her blasphemous self, or he’s begging for salvation, when there’s no space for anything holy around them. She doesn’t silence him, though. If anything, the prayers lull her until she’s peaking, reaching her climax and taking her pleasure in it for a little time before a strangled gasp leaves Nanni’s throat and he spills his seed inside her, his back arching.

Pina slides off him, then, deliberately slowly, breathing heavily but satisfied to the core. She stands up as soon as she’s recovered enough, redoing laces and smoothing down folds, but Nanni doesn’t move. He just raises his hands – the hands that only minutes ago traced her body, grasped her hips as she came, as tainted and doomed as the rest of his body – and covers his eyes, as if shielding himself from her sight could save him from further sin.

“Leave! Go away!” He says, weeping. His lips tremble like those of a snivelling child, and yet he’s never been more beautiful, more glorious than he is now, with dirt and leaves tangled in his hair. “Never come here again, please, go!”

“I won’t return” _la Lupa_ replies soberly, braiding back her hair as she goes. They both know it’s a lie, as false as are now the vows he made to Maricchia, but it is no matter.

There’ll be other times, and if what began with tears shall end in blood, so be it.

**Author's Note:**

> Not a new fic, just a prompt I filled in October for the Corsets and Lemons Kinkmeme linked on this story. Cheers!


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